A Burden Shared
by passioninprose
Summary: After a grating afternoon's investigation, Dr. Watson sits brooding in a quiet railcar back to London, not expecting his companion Sherlock Holmes to be the one to lighten the mood.


The first quarter hour of our train back to London was a decidedly quiet one. Holmes' chin touched his chest, his eyes closed softly and his arms crossed in deepest thought. If I had some burning or insightful question regarding the case I would not ask it; I knew better than to disturb his reverie. I found myself quite lost in thoughts of my own, resting my elbow against the window-ledge of our car, watching the countryside roll by in misty waves of green and grey – it would be evening soon.

The landscape did nothing to sooth my mood, the cheery little cottages and passing farms draped in drizzly twilight only deepening my scowl. I was not a man to be easily angered, and when mulling over my emotions, I found that, at most, I was indignantly annoyed; but for some reason, be it the gloomy weather or the oppressive quiet of the car, I was unable to shake the feeling.

One bit of advice I often gave my friend was to talk over things which troubled him; the weight of a problem shared was less of a burden to carry. I glanced up to Holmes, but finding him in the same state of introversion, I returned my gaze to the window. He was no doubt aware of what troubled me, he being more able to discern my emotions through my expressions sometimes more than I could through my heart, but even if he had expressed a conversational inclination, I would have been hesitant to speak to him of it.

It was a trivial thing. Stupid, really.

Through my writings I was well aware of the fame and respect the general public had acquired for Sherlock Holmes, and I was proud to have given him this, something he well and truly deserved. His popularity did, as Holmes brought up a few times, sometimes present him with problems regarding recognition or flattery, but on the whole we suffered no negative consequence from it. True it was that the event in my mind was also on the whole of no consequence, but as the train whistled on I allowed myself to brood.

Who had that medico thought he was, to unabashedly and most purposefully tread on my toes during the entire initial investigation? (Figuratively and, I think, a few times literally). His esteem and respect for Holmes seemed to be his only positive quality, as he did his utmost to upstage and outdo me in my assistance to the great detective. When Holmes would pose a thought to me, he would answer. If I were to point out some observation to my companion, he would interject, twisting and turning my words to make me appear a fool, then bring the same matter to Holmes' attention.

To his credit, I was well aware of Holmes' irritation with this man growing with my own, and I do not regret the snicker I gave as Holmes lost his patience with the fellow, not that it did much to deter him. Before we left back to London, Holmes had arranged with the local police that the medicine man would not be allowed further involvement in the case, and with a roll of our eyes the matter was settled.

Why, then, was I allowing this imbecile to continue to grate me?

I found myself tapping my fingers against the window as I gazed without focus through the pane. I was not sure how long I had been doing so, but apparently it had been long enough to gain the attention of my companion.

"My dear fellow," said Holmes, lifting his chin and opening one eye, his gaze piercing in spite of the missing half, "I find your tapping quite detrimental to my thinking."

I hastily took my hand from the window and placed it on my knee, giving him an apologetic look before lowering my gaze to the same place. "Sorry, Holmes."

He closed his eyes again as he lifted his arms over his head, stretching his back as he came out of his trance. "No matter. This case of ours is a simple one, I rather think we will have our man by tomorrow."

I made no comment as the train rattled on, finding myself looking back through the glass, the mist of the evening having grown in to a light rain, pattering against the window morosely. It seemed to fit my mood entirely.

"Come now, Watson, surely the events of this afternoon have not bothered you so much as this."

I looked at him over my shoulder. He was smiling at me, clearly amused by my grumpiness. I raised an eyebrow at him in response.

He continued to smile, and I felt myself becoming irritated with the man before he rested his elbow on the back of his seat and spoke in his perfect theatrical cockney accent.

"Com on, Guv. Oi won't be loike to let the gen'leman 'assle you."

I stared at him for a moment, the ridiculousness of his speech almost giving way to a smile, though I composed myself and responded with a grunt.

"'E wus quite imper'nent."

"Quite," I responded.

"A righ' ol' chump."

"Indeed."

"Surely no match for a docta' of yer caliber."

I pshawed, but turned my face back toward the window, half concealing the grin that had appeared on my face. Damn the man, he knew I found this particular voice comical. Paired with the image of a perfectly upright Holmes, I could not contain my amusement.

"Can you imagine those unfor'unate enough to 'ave to visit 's office?" Holmes continued in that ludicrous voice, watching me with a wide grin.

"Hardly," I replied, looking back to him with no attempt to hide my smile.

"It's a wonder 'e wusn't taken down'n school. Oi would have surely broken 'is nose f'Oi 'ad to be partnered with the loiks of 'im."

I snickered at the man's expense, and Holmes joined me to where our car was ringing with our combined laughter.

"I am sorry Holmes," I chuckled, "it really was a foolish thing to be brooding over."

"Nonsense," he replied graciously in his normal voice. "He really was an idiot."

* * *

><p><em>I do apologize for my inability to correctly transcribe a Cockney accent; I am but a Yank. ;)<em>

__This short story was inspired partly by author __KCS__, who writes the loveliest Holmes fanfiction I've ever had the pleasure to peruse._  
><em>


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